


For Queen and Country

by JaceDexter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Eventual Johnlock, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Updates, spy!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3734743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaceDexter/pseuds/JaceDexter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a spy who is invalided back home from a mission in Afghanistan after not being on home soil for over ten years and doesn't react well to civilian life until he meets a certain Sherlock Holmes. Eventual Johnlock. Slow updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for intending to read this. All quotes and scenes are loosely the same but may not be 100% the same. Please don't be mad.

When John was invalided back to his mother country, it was the first time in over ten years that he'd stepped foot in the country he'd fought for. He was filled with both dread and anticipation. It was anticipation to finally feel at home and dread for the boredom that would ensue.

The feeling of home, however, never seemed to come. After years of travel and blending and excitement, staying put in a dingy little flat alone on his "military" pension was bleak and stressful. He was itching to do something, anything rather than job hunt at local GP's and talk to his non-cleared psychologist.

"How's your blog going?"

He looked around the dark room, automatically for exits as his reply came in a controlled voice, "Yeah good. Very good."

"You haven't written a word have you?"

He watched as his Psychologist shook her head in despair and wrote "still has trust issues" on her little pad.

Pissed that he was having to talk to this dim-witted and ignorant "specialist" he called her out.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'."

"And you read what I was writing upside down."

John was fed up with this version of life and was bordering on doing something stupid when the answer he was looking for came in the calling of an old "friend" as he was limping through a park.

"John! John Watson!" It took John a second longer than it should've to realise that this man was indeed calling him, after all, John had been many names over the years. Instantly on alert, John turned around to face a rather overweight man, as he ran through the last time he'd been given the name John Watson.

"It's Mike. Mike Stanford," the man unhelpfully added. "We went to uni together back in the day. I know, I put on a few pounds." He patted his belly happily.

Oh right, John thought. The political assassination back in '88.

"Hey!" John replied, blending in seamlessly.

John sat down on the bench next to the man and began conversing with him. After a fairly long catch-up, Mike asked him what had been going on in his life. John explained that after coming back from Afghanistan (his last mission and cover story) he'd been alone in a dingy flat looking for somewhere else to stay.

"But, who would me as a flatmate?"

Mike seemed to light up for a second before he replied, "Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who's the first?" Came John's automatic reply.

Now as John was being led through St. Barts hospital, he thought about the situation he'd got himself into. He talked to a relative stranger, who then said that another stranger didn't think he'd be a good flatmate and was now following the first stranger to meet the bad flatmate. John sighed internally, well he wanted something different.

Mike pushed a set of double doors open to reveal a tall lanky man examining a microscope in what appeared to be a lab of some sort. Without looking up, the new stranger in a deep voice held his hand out, "Mike can I borrow your phone, mine has no signal."

"Sorry, I left mine at home." Mike responded.

The man looked up at Mike before John interjected, "Here, have mine."

The man's head turned towards John and John felt himself being assessed before the man accepted the outstretched phone and typed a text before returning the phone and continuing his microscope examination.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked.

John looked towards Mike in surprise, "I'm sorry, what?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq? Which one was it?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry how did you-"

A young woman burst in holding a coffee and gave it to the tall man.

"Ah, Molly! Coffee. Thank you. what happened to the lipstick?"

She looked dismayed and turned away from the man slightly. Ah, she likes him.

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

Molly muttered, "Okay" to herself before turning and leaving at the dismissal.

The man turned back to his microscope, "How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

"Are you-" John turned to Mike, "You told him about me?"

"Not a word."

What the actual fuck? "Then who said anything about flat mates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out of lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

John didn't panic but his danger bells were ringing loud.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Ignoring the question, the man stood up and prepared to leave, "I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat."

The man frowned and almost paused in his cleanup, "Problem?" And on went his woolly long trench coat.

"We don't know a thing about each other-" except you're really observant, socially oblivious which suggests sociopath or just rudeness and can offer the sense of danger I need "-I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The man walked towards the door John was standing next to, "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided back home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him- possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite right I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" The man exists leaving him stunned before he popped his head back in gleefully. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon." He then left abruptly again.

John turned to Mike and Mike just grinned and shrugged, "Yeah. He's always like that."

Mike walked out as John leant against the wall, processing what had just occurred.

That man, Sherlock, had dissected his image within only a few minutes and that screamed DANGER in big fat letters. Yes, he'd been injured in Afghanistan, his sister was an alcoholic who left her partner, and of course he was putting the limp on. It was a blending measure. John took comfort in the little details Sherlock got wrong before his last name registered. Holmes.

No! It couldn't be! John uselessly looked towards the door Sherlock head walked through. Shit! John thought. He's danger alright.

It was at that point John knew for certain where he'd be at seven tomorrow.


	2. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long and sorry about how short this is. I will try to start the next chapter soon

Even after being in England for almost two months now, John still hadn't gotten used to how quick it got dark in the evenings. So when he arrived outside the designated house and it was almost pitch black, he tensed automatically. Despite his years in the service, he'd always hated the dark. He paused outside the front door to knock when he heard the tread of a London cab pull up to the curb behind him. He waited for the dexterous man to fall out of the small compartment and call out his name.

"John!" 

John turned around with a mildly surprised look on his face, as if he hadn't heard anything that was going on behind him.

"Holmes," John replied as the Sherlock marched up to the door beside him.

"Call me Sherlock, please." John nodded as Sherlock knocked on the door.

"Looks rather expensive?" He silently wondered what sort of work Sherlock did that would allow him this place.

"The landlady, Ms Hudson, is giving me a deal. She owes me a favour after her husband got sentenced to death in Florida."

John frowned, "And you got him off?"

Sherlock turned and grinned, "No. I ensured it."

The door to the house opened revealing a small mousy like woman who shouted with glee, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock allowed the hug which followed before introducing Ms Hudson to John and likewise and entering the building. John slowly hobbled up the stairs with his cane and ignored the look Ms Hudson was giving him as Sherlock raced up ahead. Once he entered 221b the first thing he noticed was the absolute mess everywhere. Which was surprising because usually exits are first. He then noted the open spaces and large window looking down at the street. A building of this type would have a fire escape at the back where John assumed the bedrooms and their windows would be. Apart from that it seemed like a very nice place.

"Very nice. Very nice indeed," he voiced as Sherlock bounced around the room in excitement. 

"Yes I thought so as well-"

"Once we get this place cleaned up."

"-Which is why I have taken the liberty of moving in. Oh." John grimaced his apology as Sherlock tidied up a few papers. 

"Well I can tidy up a bit…" Something clicked in John's head and he frowned internally. He cares what I think. Not a sociopath but he doesn't appear to want to be rude. But that only leaves- 

"That's a skull." John pointed out the human skull on the mantelpiece.

"Friend of mine." Came Sherlock's reply.

"What do you think Dr Watson? There's a second bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing one." Ms Hudson looked between John and Sherlock.

"Yes of course we'll be needing one. Why wouldn't we?" John frowned at the implication. Did Sherlock not make many friends?

"Well you get all sorts round here. Ms Turner next door has married ones."

John gave Ms Hudson a look as she rounded the corner into the kitchen.

"Oh look at this mess! What have you done to my kitchen Sherlock?"

"They're experiments Ms Hudson. Be careful." 

"What do you think of this then, Sherlock?" Came Ms Hudson's voice form the kitchen as John sunk into an armchair. John watched as something caught Sherlock's eye outside of the window.

"Three suicides in the last week-"

"Four." Sherlock's voice rang out. "There's been a fourth one and something is different with this one." Sherlock turned as an obvious detective inspector bounded up the stairs out of breath.

"Why is this one different?" Sherlock asked.

Without even blinking at the question the inspector responded with, "You know how they never leave notes? This one did."

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock did a muted groan and swivelled around, "Anderson won't work with me."

"You need a medical examiner, not a partner!"

"No I need a partner!"

"Are you coming or not?"

"I will, just not in the police car. I follow on behind." 

The detective bounded down the stairs again. Sherlock seemed to pause for a moment before jumping up in excitement.

"Brilliant! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh it's Christmas! Don't wait up. Ms Hudson!" Sherlock prepared to leave.

"Are you leaving already then?" Her voice called out from around the corner.

"Possible suicides. Four of them. There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent!" Agreed, John thought to himself.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Ms Hudson, is on!" And with that dramatic statement Sherlock left, leaving John in the company of the landlady who wanted her husband dead and succeeded with Sherlock's help.

However that didn't last long when Sherlock popped his head back in the room and John stood up automatically.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor."

John blinked at the statement and the creeping excitement in it. 

"Yes." Yes he was stationed on his last mission as an army doctor but before he joined the service he was a proper doctor. As exchange for leaving his job, they paid his student bills for him. Him being a qualified doctor was the only reason he got the mission in Afghanistan. Otherwise he'd be in Brazil helping track down the drug lord who flayed a member of English parliament while they were on holiday.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

Sherlock stalked towards his with a predatory gleam, "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths?"

"Well yes." Most of the injuries had been his own mind you.

"Bit of trouble too I bet." You could say that again.

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

Johns reply was instant, "Oh god yes!"


End file.
